A Really Intelligent Blog about Everything.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

For those of you who don't know, this quarter I have been forced into taking a mandatory science credit and have wisely chosen Planets (!!!) because of my undying passion for all things planet-related. That's right, I am now an official lover of planets and outer space and everything else that's not on earth. I love space so much more than most things... I even took the time to compose this brief list of things that I do not love as much as planets:

Things that I do not Love as Much as Planets

1. Dead raccoons

2. Muffins baked with shards of glass

3. Satan

You see...?!?! You see how much I love planets..?!?! They are, quite literally, my favorite things ever.

Anyway, after a couple days in said Planets class, I have come to the extraordinary conclusion that I have lived out the last 19 years of my life in a blind cloud of deceit. You see, it turns out that I am not called to be a designer as I once imagined... my calling in life -- my soul purpose for breathing -- is to become an astronaut.

In light of this realization, I have decided to look at this class as a sort of practical Astronaut-training course aimed at non-science majors who may or may not want to project themselves into space one day. The leader of our troop is Professor Woody Sullivan (beloved Sexagenarian and Planet Extraordinaire), whose single calling is to train us for the many trials we may one day face in our voyage to outer space.

Yesterday, for instance, we learned how to impersonate planets (a handy talent for all new astronauts)! That's right -- at the fervent insistence of Astronaut Sullivan, we left the comfort of our heated classroom, trooped outside, stood around (excitedly!) in the rain, and pretended to be planets while our frazzled TA arranged us in accordance to the solar system. Brilliant. This course is already paying off.... Planet Impressions are Astronaut Survival 101, after all. What could be a handier method of camouflage whilst in outer space than a convincing planet impersonation?

The rest of the course, I'm sure will be just as riveting. We already have our first homework assignment: calculate the surface area of the moon. How relevant! How practical! My world will never be the same again. I honestly do not know how I have pioneered through life so far without knowing this helpful bit of information... There are so many practical instances in my everyday life where it is pertinent that I know how to calculate a planet's surface area! Here are a few examples:

1. You have stumbled across a nerd convention by mistake, and you desperately want to impress people with your planetary know-how.

2. You are being held at gunpoint by a terrorist who is trying to blow up the moon. In an effort to be helpful, you tell him the surface area of the moon, and he is so pleased with your knowledge of the solar system that he lets you go.

3. You have entered a Surface-Area-Finding competition and the category is celestial objects.

4. You have done something terrible to embarrass yourself. Just start loudly rambling off your surface area computations, and everyone will be so impressed, that they will completely forget about the incident.

(The list could go on.....)

This class is preparing me for the real world. While other students are sitting in a bored sort of stupor, listening to mundane Earth science lectures and waiting to die, MY Professor is preparing us for something practical. My horizons have been broadened, my passion for space travel is now awakened, and my life will never be the same again.

I will shoot for the stars. Literally.

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p.s. Check out my planet impersonation.... In the following two pictures, one will be a real planet, and one will be me pretending to be a planet. Don't feel badly if you can't tell them apart. It takes a keen eye and a lot of specialized space training to decipher.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

My Planets professor told my class proudly this morning, while pausing from his description of Jupiter's rings, that he is an esteemed sexagenarian. He offered no explanation, continued his lecture, and seemed quite oblivious to the bewildered whisperings of his students.

Anyway, after spending the entire afternoon believing that Mr. Woody Sullivan is some sort of criminal sex offender, I finally googled the term. I am pleased to announce that sexagenarian is merely a (not-at-all suggestive) phrase referring to people who are in their 60s... What a relief.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

I am just sitting on my bed, practicing my best impersonation of a half-dead slug and watching the hours slowly pass away. No need to worry yourselves, though... I'm getting very good at it. It turns out I have a knack for oozing in a useless sort of manner whilst secreting large amounts of mucus from my pores! I'm just squelching about happily like a slug who has been taught by scientists to operate a computer, lolling around on the internet and occasionally sliming on the keyboard in an attractive sort of manner. You know... The norm. Today is my last day of Christmas break after all, and I am trying to spend my free time wisely, which basically means being lazy and doing NOTHING AT ALL.

Sometimes I really do feel like I should make an effort to be more interesting, though. I would probably have more devote fans if instead of lying here pretending to be a slimy insect, I went out and fought crime on the streets or learned to speak Hebrew backwards. From this moment on, I vow to make a greater effort to be more suave and talented. I will be like one of those misunderstood poet-types with black fingernails and perfectly-combed mustaches. Only minus the mustache part, because I am actually a girl, you see. And most girls can't really grow mustaches, unless they have some sort of hormonal imbalance. And even then, they probably wax it or shave it or have it burned off with a lazar gun. But that is completely besides the point.

Anyway, as I was saying before I went off on my tangent about the joys of womanly facial hair, I am having a very boring and dull sort of day. And the worst part of the matter is that it was actually self-induced. I woke up this morning, reveling in the last sunny glow of Christmas break, with a determination to spend my final day of freedom with as much relaxation as possible. Ten zillion cups of snack-pudding later, however, I am beginning to feel very bored. I have quite literally done nothing all day long.

On a brighter note, I've made at least one great accomplishment within the last 24 hours. I have discovered that pudding tastes better if you mix it with peanut butter! I'm thinking of selling the rights of my scientific find to the National Association of Pudding Enthusiasts, as they are probably the only ones who will appreciate my genius.

Though on a second thought, doesn't everything taste better with a spoon of peanut butter (excluding ketchup and horse radish)..? Does that make my discovery somewhat less impressive..?

Crap and double crap.

... I wonder how pudding would taste mixed with ketchup and horse radish.

I should probably try it.

Anyway.. umm... I don't really remember what I was talking about, so I think I might just shut up now.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

It is only 2:19 PM of January 1st, and I have accidentally spent at least 2/3 of my new year so far pretending (quite successfully) to be a rabid grizzly bear with my not-so-normal friends... Are such things common? I'm not sure really; all I know is that I'm blessed to be gifted with a group of pals who are as mature and talented at animal impressions as I am. That is really all a girl could ask for, after all.

Anyway, all realistic grizzly bear impressions aside, I am thrilled so far with the New Year! The sun is shining... the birds are singing... I have only stepped on my deaf dog, Taffy, once so far... The year is off to an excellent start. I am really very excited for what 2011 is sure to hold. I have a lot of realistic hopes and ambitions for the next 12 months, all of which I am sure will be brought into completion in a year's time... I plan to learn how to eat fire, for starters. I am also kind of hoping to master my ability of controlling the weather with my mind, and I'd like to train myself to live forever without food or sleep. I will start working on all of these new hobbies immediately.

By the end of this year, I plan to be a sort of fire-breathing superhuman with an uncanny ability to forecast the weather. These are my resolutions, and I'm sticking to them. I'm feeling very optimistic. After all, even if all else fails, I have a very convincing grizzly bear impression that I'm sure could earn me a decent living in the circus.

Monday, December 27, 2010

I have accidentally embarked on a voyage with a group of mad people that call themselves my family. We have barely packed up our bags and left my lovely Aunt’s house in Spokane (where we stayed for the holidays!) and already our car ride has been chop full of good times and family fun. What with my parents bickering for half an hour about the location of the freeway, the nationality of the nearby gas station’s owner, and everything else under the sun, our drive thus far has been jolly! Our international student is texting her boyfriend (as always) in the next seat, and I am just sitting here, playing the role of the perfect (and talented and good-looking) daughter, as is my duty. It is a demanding job, but I suppose somebody has to do it....

We are currently whizzing along the snowy countryside, my mom unconscious as always in the front and my dad zigzagging across lanes (without signaling, I might add) like he is crowned King of the Highway. Unfortunately, he is actually not, but when I pointed this out to him ever-so-politely, he only grunted and started lecturing me (as he so loves to do) about how he is wise and old and bearded and can do whatever he so desires. That’s what he likes to think.... I, however, believe he is secretly practicing his impersonation of a raving drunk to fulfill his lost childhood dreams of becoming a stunt driver. I suppose he can do what he pleases, though, as long as he doesn’t accidentally drive us off a cliff with all his fun and games.

Anyway, my dad has just turned around and suggested that I drive for awhile. I have told him in my politest voice that what he asks is impossible, as I have been paralyzed from scarlet fever since youth, but he is very mean and unsympathetic and is just rolling his eyes at me in exasperation. Honestly, some people can be so rude. We still have a good four hours of driving ahead of us, though, so odds are he will get his way sooner or later...

That is all I have to say for now. Driving long distances with the family is just so exciting, that I hardly know how to contain myself. If something monumental happens, I will surely post something new.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Today is one of those days where I feel like I've been eaten by a bear and then spit back up in a dazed and delirious sort of haze, with nothing but a headache and about a million teeth marks to show for it.

It's kind of gross. I am just sitting here at 5:03PM in a Starbucks (where else?), puzzling about why I am having my morning coffee in the dark, and also why it is already dark at 5:03PM, and why everyone sitting here looks so haggard and drained of life, and a lot of other totally relevant questions that I won't get into for the sake of avoiding a long(er) run-on sentence than the 6-line one I have unwittingly just stumbled upon. Anyway (back to what I was saying), I have accidentally slept through the entire day due to a gingerbread party gone mad, and I am now just emerging from my cave of festive, Christmas slumber to greet the day! Unfortunately, it has now dawned on me that the day is already over, and I am stuck out here at Starbucks in the gloomy grey evening with all the vampires and other dwellers of the night that I usually forget about in my upbeat mornings.

There is certainly a different vibe here from my usual 8:30AM crowd. Everyone is wearing black and looking particularly surly and upset... No one is talking... The music is all slow and moody... A couple of werewolves have transfigured in the corner and are howling at the moon... and here I am sitting in a half-dazed sort of manner wondering why it is nighttime and how I have gotten here and if I will be eaten by wolves when I try to walk back to my car... It is a different world than the one you encounter when you actually wake before nightfall.

Anyway, I am feeling a little bit out of place here without my black trench coat or haggard under-eye circles or desire to suck human blood, so I think I am going to end this blog post now and sneak off to my car before I am abducted by creatures of the night. Today (or... um.. tonight, actually...) has been an excellent reminder as to why I generally rise with the sun like the go-getter and cheery optimist that I am. The nighttime vibe here is a tad discouraging.

Good grief. I am going to dash on home now. If I never write again, it is probably because I have been eaten by bats.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

This is the first year my mom and I have ever been entrusted to go to the Christmas tree farm by ourselves, and we have accidentally brought home a tree with severe scoliosis of the trunk. Apparently, we were not ready for the grave responsibility of tree-choosing... We have unwittingly selected one that shares a striking resemblance to the Hunch Back of Notre Dame -- hunched over in a withered sort of way that only someone who has spent their life stalking gypsies from a clock tower can be.

My dad just put it up last night, and my mom and I stood by as he hoisted the tree into place, very excited to prove ourselves as tree-picking champs. The tree was secured upright, the netting around it was cut and the branches pulled down, but as we stood back to admire our handiwork, suddenly the room became very uncomfortable, as we all shifted about uneasily....

The darn thing was practically sideways.

My dad turned silently to stare at me and my mom, his eyebrows raised so high that if he wasn't bald (hahahahaha... I joke), I'm sure they would have disappeared into his hair.

My mom and I grappled desperately for excuses:

"It didn't look sideways at the farm... Maybe our house is just slanted..."

"If you squint, it kind of looks like a sea snake!"

"We were just trying to be charitable. We bought the gimpy tree to voice our support of scoliosis patients everywhere!"

"Yeah... We thought it would be nice to show our concern for the arthritic of our nation..."

... Unfortunately, my dad was not reassured. He just stared at us, then back at the haggard, hunched over little tree, then back again at us, all the while furrowing his eyebrows in a disbelieving sort of way and opening and closing his mouth like a fish (who has also just seen a shockingly ugly christmas tree and doesn't know how to react). Finally, he seemed to get ahold of himself, and after a few minutes he walked off mumbling about how women should never be trusted to pick out decent trees or some nonsense like that...

In our gravest defense, I do think the tree looked a bit less sideways at the tree farm. Or perhaps it was just surrounded by even uglier trees, so when we brought it out to examine, we didn't notice.... Either way though, my mother and I have shamefully failed, and I can say with great certainty that we will NEVER be entrusted with such an important task again.

To make matters worse, my dad is out with our Christmas tree right now, power tool in hand, drilling holes into our sad and pathetic, little tree to try to make it look less bent... He is still mumbling (very rudely, I might add) about my and my mother's ignominious shortcomings with all things Christmas-tree related. I will sneak coal into his stocking this year, I swear. Anyway, if he thinks any number of new branches is going to hide the fact that our tree is a crippled hunchback, he is quite mistaken.